


Willing Company

by KnightWinchster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Supernatural AU - Freeform, drunk driving (mentioned), hospital au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightWinchster/pseuds/KnightWinchster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a late night car crash, Dean Winchester is rushed to the hospital with broken bones and a head injury. His temporary roommates are Meg Masters, a cancer patient, and Castiel Novak, a boy in a seemingly-endless comatose state. While Castiel is still asleep, Dean learns to use his silence as an outlet, and a friendship is started before he even opens his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crash

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction since high school, so I'm a bit out of practice (this will be rusty and is only a draft) so forgive me. Hopefully its a little enjoyable?? Sighgg

The car crash was sudden: a skid of tires, honk of horns, a tumble of two cars off a ledge. The passengers of the first car both perished in the fallout, a drunk couple celebrating their recent engagement. The other car held a survivor, a lone college student out for a late night drive. Dean Winchester, referred to as “The Miracle Boy” by the paramedics on scene, was rushed to hospital with three broken ribs, a broken arm, a minor head injury, and no emergency contact.

The Miracle Boy was placed in a hospital room shared by two other patients, both of which were unconscious upon his arrival.

 

—

 

Dean felt a sloppy pull into consciousness as he awoke. His head throbbed, one of his hands tingled. _Damn it._ Trying to sit up, he was met with a stabbing pain through his chest, and his head slammed back down into the pillow. “Careful there,” came a voice to his right.

At first, Dean was too disoriented to even look for the voice’s body, busy criticizing his surroundings. Itchy sheets. Molding ceiling. Hospital gowns that didn’t fit. An IV drip that felt cold. He was in a hospital, sure, but why? He couldn’t quite remember.

"The docs will be in to see you now that you’re awake, just take it easy, Skippy," the voice came again, dripping with condescension this time.

Dean whipped his head to see who it was. _Ow that hurt_. A smirking girl, probably a couple years younger than him. Dark hair, buzzed on the side closest to him to reveal a large scar, stitched up like a doll. He was staring before he could stop himself, but the girl only rolled her eyes, “Its not polite to stare, you know,”

Dean blinked. “I— uh,” he couldn’t get out the rest. Ripping his eyes away from her, he turned to his left, where a curtain was drawn between him and the next bed.

"That’s Clarence," the girl chirped up again, "Comatose patient, been out cold for a week or so," she seemed to pause for a reaction, but didn’t get one.

 _Call Sammy. Don’t call Dad. Make sure they don’t call Dad._ "I need to see a doctor," Dean said quickly.

The girl shrugged, then pressed a little silver button on her nightstand. It beeped quietly. “As you wish,” a long sigh when Dean didn’t respond, “I’m Meg, by the way. Normal people introduce themselves when they meet, y’ know,”

It was a struggle to stay focus, his head hurt. “Sorry. Another time maybe,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. The other was held down by a thick cast. His Dad was gonna kill him.

Meg let out an exasperated sigh and hopped up from her bed, walking over to Dean’s and plopping herself down at the foot of it. Dean groaned as the bed shook. “Hey,” she lifted his wrist to look at a hospital band that he hadn’t noticed before, “Dean Winchester," she read, "I’ve been stuck with Mr. Talkative for almost a week. I’m goin’ crazy. So come on, be polite,"

Dean readjusted in bed, and while he unable to sit up he could at least prop himself up slightly on his pillows. Meg had dark eyes, big eyelashes, and was thin in her hospital gown. She spoke with confidence though Dean could’ve sworn he saw her hand shake; she was clearly very sick, but it didn’t seem to affect her. Under normal circumstances, Dean would’ve been his usual charming self, good with the ladies. He tried smirking as best he could, but it came out forced. Before he could say anything else, a nurse came in.

"Dean, you’re awake!" the nurse smiled, pulling a clipboard off a table and clicking a pen alive. Her red hair was piled up neatly into a bun on the top of her head, her smile was friendly. "I’m Anna, your nurse. How are you feeling?" she sat herself down beside him.

Dean scoffed lightly, “I’d like to be able to sit up. And I gotta take a leak,”

"Charming," Meg remarked snidely.

The nurse turned to Meg, and her sweet expression seemed to faulter, “Back to your own bed, Miss Masters,” she said calmly. Though Meg seemed to challenge her a bit with her expression, she went peacefully to her bed and plugged in ear buds.

Anna turned back to Dean, who was beginning to feel lightheaded. _Need a drink. And sleep. Lights are too bright_. He squinted his eyes. “I need a phonecall,” he remembered. Anna smiled again.   "Of course, Dean," her voice was like a song, "You just give us your parents’ contact information and we’ll get them over here—

—No.” he interjected, “I make the call. Not getting my Dad involved.”

The nurse seemed to think on it for a moment, and after looking down at her clipboard, nodded. “Well, you’re over 18, so we don’t have to call your Dad,” reaching to his sidetable, she pulled out an old chord phone from the drawer and placed it on Dean’s lap, “Press 9 before you dial and it should work.”

Dean tried to relax a little. He could call Sam. “Thanks,”

"And in regards to the bathroom issue, there’s a blue bed pan to your right. Until you can stand you’ll use that, and a nurse will empty it for you." she added, nodding towards the object, which sat on his right table. Dean’s face twisted up, and he saw Meg looking over, laughing to herself.

"That’s disgusting." he snarled.

 


	2. A Visit

Sam made it to the hospital the next day after breakfast. When he came in, Dean broke out a charming smile. “Sammy,” he breathed in relief.

Sam looked less relieved. _Comfort him_. “I’m fine, I swear,”

"That’s not what the nurse said," Sam argued, already looking stressed out and sleep-deprived when he sat down beside Dean’s bed, "What were you doing driving out so late?"

 _Damn it_. "Just out," Dean blurted too quickly, he knew Sam wasn’t buying it. Meg, thankfully, was elsewhere.

Sighing, Sam seemed to give it up for now. “Have you called Dad yet?” he asked. Dean frowned.

"No, of course not. He’s busy." Dean yawned, changed the subject, "So, how’s school? Kicking ass and taking names like I taught you?" he joked. Sam smiled, though Dean knew it was only for his benefit. _Keep talking._

"Its quiet. I spend most of the time studying in the library. You’d hate it,"

Dean laughed softly, “Of course I would. I’m only at school for the women. Speaking of,” he winked, “How’s my kid brother with the ladies? Chasing tail I hope!” _Keep talking. Keep busy. Don’t let him start it again._

"Dean—

—Sam.” Dean tried to stop it. He couldn’t.

"You haven’t called in months."

Dean sighed, closed his eyes. Sam had moved out to a big college, a couple hours drive from the community college Dean had enrolled in, and Dean was bad at keeping in touch. Weeks would pass where he simply would forget all together, or nights would come where he’d stare at his phone and debate calling. But there was never anything good enough he could think of saying, there was always something in the way. After their last fight with their Dad, everyone was stretched thin and Dean had taken the wrong side of the argument. He could feel himself tearing, and if he could keep Sam at arm’s length, he hoped to save his brother from feeling the same way. “Sammy,” he started, “You know I couldnt,”

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed together. His hair was getting long again, hanging in his eyes. He needed a haircut. “Why the hell not?” he was getting angry. _Distract him. Hide. Run_. Dean couldn’t run. Why had he called Sam again?

There was no one else he could call.

“You know why not,” Dean insisted, his tone firm.

Sam stood up in frustration, pacing by the foot of Dean’s bed. Dean recalled a time when Sam was never angry with him, only in awe. He missed those times. These days, all he did was let his brother down. “For god’s sake, Dean, you're my brother,” Sam ranted, “You're supposed to take my side. You're supposed to answer the damn phone,”

Dean’s hand rubbed the back of his neck, searching for an off button. _Need sleep. Need a drink. Need ten drinks_. He was exhausted. “I don’t wanna fight, Sammy,” it came out more like a plea.

“Fine,” Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was angry again, “I'll come by later. I’ve gotta grab a place to sleep.”

“There’s a motel down the street,”

Sam left without saying anything else, his backpack slouched over one shoulder. _He’s grown again_. Dean pressed his eyes closed once he was gone.

\--

Somewhere in the quiet buzz of Clarence’s machine, Dean began to fall in and out of sleep. There were moments when the shadows from his dreams blurred into the hospital room, sat on his bed. Sometimes he could feel them clawing at his chest. Meg slipped into his dream, into his dorm room with her iPod and headphones, saying something in a low growl he couldn’t understand. In one nightmare, her scar split open and shadows spilt out.

“Hey, Miracle Boy,” she whispered to him. Dean couldn’t tell if he was awake or still sleeping. His eyes felt heavy.

“I said, hey,” she repeated, this time shaking his good arm. Dean groaned. _Awake._

“I was sleeping,” he moaned.

The brunette snickered, “I know that, Deano. But I’m board. _Entertain me_ ,” she purred, eyes focused. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ll pass,” he muttered, and though she didn’t seem put off, Dean was already too busy staring at the hospital bed to his left. The curtain wasn’t pulled across, and for the first time, he could see their roommate.

The boy was still, hooked up to machines at every possible place, a breathing tube hung from his lips. His eyes, though closed, seemed sunken and lined with dark bags. His lips were cracked, his hair was a mess. Dean felt something deep in his chest ache in sympathy. A bandage encased a part of his head where blood was seeping through. “How long has he been out again?” he asked Meg.

Meg turned to look at the boy. Her expression softened slightly. “7 days now. His parents won’t give the hospital the go-ahead on pulling the plug on the poor bastard, so he’s still here,” she explained.

Breathe. “What happened to him?”

Meg flopped down on her back, exasperated. She sputtered a few coughs and moaned to herself in pain. Dean was too busy staring at the boy to notice. “Wrong place, wrong time," she began, "Crossed the street a second too early, bus came around the corner when it shouldn’t have. He was awake when they first brought him in, but was bleeding pretty bad from the head I guess. He was real sweet, in a _make-you-wanna-puke-in-your-mouth_ kind of way. But one morning, he just didn’t wake up,” there was a long pause, “I figure he’s got less than a week,”

Dean nodded, unsure of what else he could say. “Poor bastard is right,”

“‘s a shame, I was almost fond of him,” Meg sighed, closing her eyes. Dean watched her for a while, struggling to breathe. He wondered what kind of sick she was, what the mountain of a scar across her scalp was from, why she insisted on always being so goddamn talkative.

A nurse Dean didn’t recognize came in before he could ask. “Miss Masters, its time for your CT scan. Please come with me,” the woman asked softly.

Meg whined dramatically, peeling herself off the bed. “See you later, Miracle Boy,” she muttered before following the nurse out. For the first time, Dean was left alone with Clarence.


	3. An Experiment in Quiet Company

Meg did not return for several days. Dean was beginning to feel lonely, even miss her company a little. He wondered where she was, if something had gone wrong. Sam hadn’t answered his calls (which wasn't a surprise in the slightest), and Anna only visited once or twice a day to empty his bed pan (he still blushed every time) The TV in the room didn’t even work. To say he was going insane in the silence would be an understatement.

One afternoon, after days of trying to sit up, Dean finally managed it. The tight binding of his bandages kept his mobility limited, but sitting up was nice. The curtain between him and Clarence was pulled back most days now, giving Dean a lot of time to watch him sleep. _Sounds creepy._  He wondered if he was dreaming under all that weight.

He couldn’t sleep that night. The small light from the hospital’s hall was leaking in under the door and between the shades, the moonlight from the opposite wall danced slowly. Dean could just barely make out Clarence’s face in the dim light. The nurses wouldn’t be in to do bed check for a few hours. He leaned over as best he could in his bed and whispered, “Clarence?”

The machine next to him whirred. “Its Clarence, right? Thats what Meg said I think,”

Someone down the hall was talking.

“I uh-- I’m sorry you’re in this mess I guess. Must be pretty crap in there,”

Clarence took a deep breath in, held it, let it go. Dean did the same.  _This is insane._

“I think I’m goin’ nuts in here, buddy. I can’t even get up to take a leak,” he chuckled quietly to himself, “Though I guess, you’ve got it worse than me. God help the nurse that has to clean you up everyday,”

Dean kept talking, and Clarence kept listening, or so he liked to think. All night Dean talked to him, watching him, staring at the ceiling, looking out the window at the sky. He told him about Sammy, and how he was off at a fancy college, and how he missed him so much but was always afraid to call. He told him about his mother, who died when Dean was very young, and how some nights, on the best nights, he dreamt of her singing. Dean talked all night in hushed whispers, in quiet desperation that Clarence, that anyone, could hear him. He needed to be heard.

\--And my old man,” this was the hardest story to tell, “Well, he’s always had a temper. Especially after Mum died. Some days it just seemed like he was drinking to die, not to numb. Sam and I were distractions, inconveniences, but if we ever tried to leave it was a betrayal. We couldn’t win, man, everything we did set him off.”

Dean tried his best to close his eyes. It strung to try.

“And last year, Sammy graduated high school, top of his class of course, and he wanted to go off to college like I had, he wanted out. Of course, I spend most weekends at home still, living off and on campus to make sure Dad remembers to eat, but Sammy, Dad always wanted to control Sammy. Maybe because he fought back more than I did,” _Daddy’s little soldier. Nothing more_ , “Anyway, when Dad found the acceptance letter, he flipped. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so mad in my life. Sam stormed out, shit was said, I guess he felt he didn’t have a choice but to leave angry,”

"I guess I picked the wrong side," The silence in the room was palpable. Tension was almost visible, Clarence was as out cold as he always was. But Dean appreciated the sense of company, and when he finally laid himself back down in bed, he felt a little better. Maybe a comatose roommate wouldn’t be so bad. At least he had someone to talk to.

\--

Dean was dreaming about some pretty girl in his English class, who sat three rows in front of him and had curly black hair that sometimes blocked his view of the professor. Not that he ever paid attention, anyway. Her name was Cassie, and she had tutored Dean his first year. Dean had been crushing on her ever since, but she never took to his many advances. Always claimed to have a boyfriend, though it never stopped him from trying.

Cassie was in his room, laying on his bed draped in his sheets. Sunlight was kissing her skin and Dean was tingling just looking at her. But the edges were fuzzy, and it wasn’t clear enough for him to reach out to her. She was just out of arm’s length. He woke up whispering for someone to hang onto him, but no one did.

“Woah there, Deano, maybe buy me dinner first,”

It was Meg. Dean groaned loudly at her and rolled over with a smirk to see her. She was back, but everything looked different. What had remained of her dark long hair was gone, her entire head shaved. The stitches on her scar looked red and irritated. She looked blue in the face. Dean’s smirk fell. Hers didn’t falter, she simply rolled her eyes with all her usual theatrics.

"You were moaning pretty happily," she teased. Dean didn't react.

Meg pouted, “Oh, don’t look at me like I’m a kicked puppy,” she said, “Its rude, you know,”

Dean shook his head and sat up, scratching at his neck, “Sorry, I uh--

\--Don’t bother, its fine,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss it, “Used to it these days, that’s what I get, I suppose,”

Dean struggled internally, debating whether or not to ask her what she had. Meg seemed to read his mind, and cleared her throat. “Its a Parafalcine Meningioma Brain Tumor, and the Doc told me surgery would be _minimally invasive_ , but clearly,” she gestured to the scar she sported, “That was a big dirty lie,”

“It’s not so noticeable,” Dean blurted out, though it was a giant lie and Meg knew it.

She scoffed, “Thanks, Miracle Boy,” she laughed, “You’re a real pantie dropper,”

Dean clicked his tongue in jest and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry about your brain I guess,” he offered.

Meg shrugged as if she were discussing bad weather that would eventually pass. She scratched at her IV drip and coughed dryly. She sounded very ill. “S’all okay, I never fancied being old anyway,”

Meg was quiet then, but Dean could hear her struggle to breathe. Her breaths were laboured and sporadic, anything but effortless. Dean wondered to himself how much time she had left. 


	4. Nightmares

Nurses came in to check on Clarence regularly. They took his vitals, some blood, every so often they adjusted his IV drip. Any of Dean’s questions about his condition were shot down or ignored, something about ‘privacy policy’ and ‘his parents wanting things quiet’. Dean tried not to argue that he hadn’t seen the kid’s parents visit once.

Whenever Meg wasn’t around for extended periods of time, Dean learned that Clarence was a better listener every time he spoke and that sometimes he breathed in patterns--

_inhale, exhale, pause, pause, inhale, pause, exhale,_

_inhale, exhale, pause, pause, inhale, pause, exhale,_

Dean learned many things about his hospital room in the time he spent awake. The TV only worked sporadically between 7 and 10 am, (when nothing good was on anyway) Meg liked tea at night to help her sleep, and Anna wore a little golden cross around her neck that when she thought people weren’t looking, she would hold between her fingers.

Sam didn’t call when Dean had expected him to. Whenever the brothers fought, Sam called first to make ammends. But this time was different, and sometimes for hours on end, Dean would stare at the phone by his bed and will it to ring so he didn’t have to dial. He was always so much better at taking things apart than he ever was at putting them back together. _Useless_. He had trouble sleeping many nights, and if it was quiet enough, he could hear Meg’s music coming from her earphones when she slept.

 

\--

 

Nightmares often shook Dean at night. Fire licking at his legs and crawling up him, visions of losing his mother, fights between him and his father. The bad ones were about losing Sam. The worst ones were about times he actually had.

But that night, Dean’s nightmares were of cheap whiskey and tequila shots with some pretty brunette wearing a slinky green dress. She wore pink lipstick and when she laughed, everything felt hazy, heavy. Just as Dean felt his tension lessen, a black cloud swallowed the girl and he felt his body rest against the inside of his ‘67 Impala, driving. It was dark, he couldn’t see well and everything was in slow motion -- his music was too loud. Somewhere in the passenger seat, Dean fumbled for his cell phone, looking away from the road. _Call Sammy._

He hadn’t even seen the other car’s headlights before the crushing collision.

Dean shot up in bed, cold sweat sticking to him. He muffled a groan and squinted around the room. Meg was asleep, her iPod still playing music, Clarence’s machined beeped and hummed with life. It took a few breaths for the car’s windshield to disappear from the hospital floor. He could still hear someone crying as the sirens came to the crash site.

He shook his head, hands clutching as his hair, pulling. It was over. It wasn’t real.

_It was real._

It was just a nightmare.

_Its all your fault._

“What are you doin’ up?” someone at the door. The night nurse, doing checks. While his hands remained in his hair, Dean felt his head still to look at her and his mouth gape open a little, caught in the middle of a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from.

“What?” he lowered his hands, self conscious, “Sorry, I’m okay,”

The nurse didn’t look convinced. She was older than most of the other nurses Dean regularly saw, though probably still a few years younger than his father. Her dirty blonde hair hung straight around her shoulders, her southern accent audible. Most nights Dean was asleep and didn’t see her. “You okay, sugar?” she asked, coming into the room.

Dean adjusted himself in bed, trying to recover. He was blushing, thankful for the dark that hid it. “Bad dream, I’m fine,” he insisted, but his voice cracked at the last word. The nurse shook her head, putting her clipboard down. She pulled up a chair without asking permission, sitting next to Dean, hands clasped.

For a moment, she looked maternal.

“You’re a shit, liar,” the maternal nature faded immediately. Dean looked confused, “An’ I should know. What’s got you up at this ungodly hour then, boy?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Dean clenched his jaw. “I’m fine. I’d like to sleep,” he spat, the words coming out more bitter than he intended. The woman pursed her lips, unimpressed.

“Mind your manners, Dean. I was only trying to help,” she scolded. Dean found himself surprised. He struggled for her name in his memory. Emily? Elenor? Ellie?

Ellen. It was Ellen.

Before he could apologize, she was gone, door shut behind her. All at once, Dean wished she had stayed to keep him company while he fought off more nightmares that crept in the dark. _Memories, not nightmares_. It was lonely in a hospital bed, he found, and it was even lonelier inside his head.

 

\--

 

Sam finally called. _Breathe. Keep it light. Apologize_. When Anna brought in the phone for Dean with Sam waiting on the other line, he almost leapt out of bed. “Sammy?” he answered eagerly.

“Hey, Dean,” the silence was awkward, “How you holdin’ up?”

His jaw clenched, “Just peachy, I love peeing into a dish and not being able to stand. Don’t worry about little ol’ me,” he spat. It came out sour. Someone was talking to Sam on the other line.

“Who’s that?” Dean asked, almost offended Sam had company. _Shut up. He’s allowed a life._

Sam didn’t respond, Dean only heard muffled speaking, Sam must’ve been holding his hand over the phone. “Goddammit Sammy, talk to me,” he hissed.

Dean held his breath and counted to ten before he could say anything else, “Sammy I’m sorry I di--

\--Dean,” Sam was back.

“I mean it, Sammy, I’m sorry. Just come see me, I’m going insane,” Dean pleaded, and it was far more desperate sounding than he would’ve liked, “I’m talking to a guy in a coma, man, I need some company. The girl they have me roomed--

\--They let you room with a girl?” Sam asked, Dean could tell he was probably smirking.

“Shut up, Sammy, its not like that, she’s a headache. Just come visit me, please?”

Sam chuckled lowly, and Dean felt the tension in his chest ease slightly. Maybe Sam wouldn’t be upset with him forever. Maybe he would be able to walk again soon, and he can get back to his life. _Back to drinking and going for late night drives when you’ve already had three gla-_

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sam said.

The boys were quiet. Exhaling, Dean rubbed his tired eyes. “Anna says I’ll be able to try walking again in a couple days,” he admitted. _About damn time._

He could hear Sam laugh a little on the other line, “I’ll come and visit soon. Thursday,”

A grin tore its way across Dean’s face for the first time in weeks, “Sounds like a plan,” he sighed, “What have you been doing, anyway?”

Sam stalled on the other line. “Sammy?” Dean repeated.

“I’ll catch you up on Thursday. Get some sleep okay? Try not to hit on the nurse too much,” Sam teased, “Enjoy the bed pan,”

Dean frowned, and Sam chuckled on the other line knowing he would, “Screw you,” Dean hissed, but the words held no ferocity this time. He would probably sleep tonight, and that was comforting. 


	5. Alone and Waking Up

Even though Sam was thirty seven minutes later to the hospital than he had promised, Dean lit up like the fourth of July when he came striding in. “Sammy,” he sighed with relief. Sam ran a hand through his hair awkwardly, swaying on his feet.

“Hey, Dean,” he finally replied.

Meg cleared her throat dramatically. Dean rolled his eyes. “This is Meg,” he groaned.

Sam nodded politely at her, smile forced. “Hey,” he said.

Meg leaped from her bed (it looked more like a stumble) and approached Sam. The height difference was almost comical, really. “So you’re Deano’s brother. I can see the looks run in the family,” she purred. Sam shifted uncomfortably as she got closer. Dean chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“I, uh--” Sam stammered. His hands shot in his pockets awkwardly as he tried to back up. Dean watched his brother’s eye dart between him and Meg’s bald head.

“Lay off him,” Dean interrupted. Meg looked to him and pouted.

“But fresh meat has arrived!” she whined, “I get lonely in here,” Meg grabbed Sam by the shirt, pulling him against her. Dean chuckled as all the blood drained from Sam’s face.

Pulling a pillow out from behind himself, Dean launched it at her and laughed as she frowned. “Leave my brother alone,” there was an edge in his voice that made Meg retreat hesitantly.

She sighed, “Fine,” before winking at Sam suggestively and leaving.

When she was gone, Sam shot Dean a concerned look. “What wrong with her?”

Dean shook his head, “Bitch is a nut-case,”

Sam gave him a look that suggested he meant the question differently, but accepted the answer nonetheless. He shrugged, Dean held his breath for a long minute.

“So,” Sam started, taking a couple of steps towards Dean’s bed, “You’re gonna be walking again soon?”

Dean was thankful for a topic of conversation that wasn’t their last argument. He nodded, “Yeah, thank god. I think I’m goin’ insane in this bed. At the very least, I get a wheelchair, so I can take myself to the bathroom, wheel down the hall,”

Sam smirked, “You just want the chair so you can wreck shit up in here,”

Dean winked wickedly, “You know it,”

“I pity your nurse,” Sam added. Dean agreed. He wasn’t even able to look Anna in the eyes anymore. Sometimes he just had to watch her leave, blushing furiously after she cleaned up after him.

A phone buzzed. Sam shifted, silencing it in his pocket. “Who’s calling you?” Dean asked. He remembered the voice on the other line.

“Nobody,” Sam lied, and it was obvious. Dean furrowed his brow at him, though knew nothing he could say would make Sam give it up.

“So I’m guessin’ you found the motel then?” he changed the subject unwillingly.

Sam nodded, looking around the room, finally settling his gaze on Clarence. His face dropped slightly at the sight of him. “So thats the coma guy?” he asked. Dean didn’t have to respond for him to know.

When they were kids, Dean and Sam had an almost-secret language. In between the small blinks of time that their father spent at home, the time where Dean was forced to take care of Sam in the absence of their only parent, the two boys would spend hours playing pretend, and making up worlds in which they were not so alone.

Of course, they were never really alone. Not really. They always had each other.

Now it was much, much different. Dean could no longer just pull a face at Sam to make him laugh and fix things. He couldn’t scare away the monsters under the bed with a flashlight. Sam had to fight his own demons, and Dean found his own were much more likely to come out when his brother wasn’t around.

Time away at college had been hard on Dean in ways he hadn’t expected, especially after Sam moved so far away. Phone calls weren’t enough, and with their Dad maybe making appearances only once every third month, it felt to Dean as if his mother wasn’t his only dead family member.

Drinking helped. It reminded him of his dad.

Driving helped. It reminded him of Sam.

But the acts could never coexist as he wished them to, and sometimes they crashed.

_One time, they crashed._

Dean shut his eyes for a moment as Sam watched Clarence. His head throbbed with pain both physical and something else. He struggled to stay focused, though his exhaustion was weighing heavily on him. “Look man, I’m really glad you’re here, but my head hurts and I gotta get a few hours of sleep in,” he admitted to Sam with defeat.

Sam shrugged, though there was something in his expression that gave Dean the impression he had somewhere to be. He didn’t mention it. “Yeah, you sleep. I’m gonna go get something from the cafeteria,”

“Stay away from anything with meat, Sammy,” Dean warned.

Sam laughed, but the smile didn’t bleed into his eyes like it should have. “Noted,”

 

\--

 

Sam had not returned by the time Dean awoke. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours, but there was no sign of his brother. He felt his chest restrict in on his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Meg had returned, though, and she had been waiting for him to wake up. “Your brother said to tell you he had somewhere to be, and that he’d be back tomorrow,” she said, as if to read his mind.

Dean clenched his jaw and took a deep breath to calm himself down. _Fuck._ He wanted to walk. No-- he wanted to run. “In other news,” Meg continued, swinging her legs over the side of her bed to face Dean better, “I’m going on a field trip for a couple days. You’re sorry ass is gonna be stuck with Clarence, there,”

Once again, Dean felt something in his stomach drop. _Alone._ He was going to be alone again.

“Oh,” was all Dean could say. For a second, Meg’s expression softened from her usual facade, but it snapped back like a rubber band.

“I’ll be back. Talk to Clarence, he’s a good listener,” she snickered.

Looking over at him, Dean sighed. Yeah, a good listener, but not so good at hearing him. Dean just wanted someone to hear him and understand without him having to speak. _No chick flick moments._ “Well, don’t get into too much trouble, then,” he offered, though his usual wit had vanished with Sam.

 

Meg left a couple of hours after that, with a wink and a sway of her hips. She was dressed in normal clothes, and Dean wondered which nurse he had to sweet talk to get his clothes back. What he wouldn’t give to wear his leather jacket again.

Against his better desires, Dean found himself talking to Clarence in the absence of everyone else once again. Just small talk, for the most part, one side of a conversation where Dean wished for company that understood. Or at least, company that was willing to try. At the very least, Clarence never laughed at him for what he felt, which was nice. _Man up, Winchester._ His father’s voice pierced through his skull.

“I think I’ll be able to walk soon,” he said quietly, just loud enough to reach his sleeping roommate, “Maybe I’ll be able to go get something from the cafeteria that doesn’t look like someone else already ate it,” he laughed dryly.

Turning his head on his pillow, Dean looked at Clarence. “What’s it like in there?” he asked, though he knew he wouldn’t get a response, “Are you dreaming? Or is it just dark? I had an uncle who was in a coma once after he tried to kill himself, and when he woke up,” Dean breathed shallowly, “He said it had all just been dark. Is that worse than dreaming? Just floating around nothing?”

In the silence, Dean clasped his hands over his chest and shut his eyes, letting the sounds of the machines next to Clarence form some sort of shitty melody.

“Wh-what?” a weak voice, muffled. It wasn’t Meg’s. It wasn’t Sam’s. It wasn’t a nurse.

Dean shot up in bed. Clarence’s eyes were fluttering open. Before he knew what he was doing, Dean was out of bed for the first time in over a week and leaning over the boy. _He’s awake_. Without good reason, Dean found himself grinning. “Clarence? Can you hear me?” he asked.

The boy groaned in response, eyes fluttering still but not open. Dean felt his whole face rearrange to fit his smile, “Nurse!” he called, “Somebody! He’s awake!”

“Hang in there, buddy, stay with me,” he said to Clarence, giving his arm a light shake. He reached out to the nightstand and clicked the little silver help button furiously. It beeped impatiently as help came.

All together, Anna, Ellen and a couple other nurses Dean didn’t know the names of rushed in, a doctor with them. “Out of the way,” one of them ordered, pushing Dean aside. Clarence groaned again.

“He’s _awake_ ,” Dean whispered, and for the first time in a long time, he felt as if the universe had given him one last gift. The company of someone new.


	6. Maternal Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been so long since I've written - I am trying to get better at writing more frequently. Love you kittens uwu

Clarence was rushed from the room with such haste it felt like getting stuck in the center of a tornado: the eye of a storm. Once everyone was gone, Dean was left alone in the room, standing. He was standing. _Standing_. It didn't even occur to him, not for some time, not when he was too focused on the open door way, where the nurses had rushed out Clarence. He was awake.

If he were to be honest with himself, Dean knew not why it mattered so much to him whether or not Clarence was awake or asleep, alive and well or sick and dying. But it did, and all at once Dean wanted to know what was going on. He clicked the little silver button again, hoping for some answers. Long moments passed with no response, and his chest began to feel heavy. He felt lightheaded. Was he standing or sitting? Maybe he should sit down. Or lie down. His limbs felt numb. All together, his legs and arms and torso gave out beneath him, and Dean hit the floor.

Everything went dark.

\--

Something was wrong.

The edges of the hospital room were faded like a series old photographs that blended into each other. Meg was lying still on her bed, unmoving. "Meg?" Dean called out to her, but it was hardly a whisper. She didn't move. Dean couldn't see her breathing. "Meg!" he called again, but it was merely a shout into the void. He tried to sit up and go to her, but his hands were bound. Cold hard shackles held him to his hospital bed, smoke engulfing his legs. Dean blinked heavily. He couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't. He was going insane.

" _Take a sad song, and make it better, remember to let her into your heart, and then you can start, to make it better,_ " someone was singing in the doorway, a familiar sweet sound of a bedtime lullaby from what felt like centuries ago. 

In the doorway, in her favourite cooking apron, was Dean's mother. Her hair seemed alive and billowing around her face, smiling at him. "Mom?" Dean whimpered. _It's not real. It's a dream. A hallucination._ He struggled to hang on to the memory of her, singing in the doorway, too far away to hold. "Mom," he spoke again, but it came out as a desperate inhale, clinging to the past. He was crying. 

The smoke was crawling further up his body, pinning him down with the weight of an ocean and suffocating him slowly, "Mom I need help," he begged, but she merely shook her head slowly, singing. Smoke was dragging itself across the floor towards her. "Mom run! Don't let it get you!" Dean pushed against the shackles, but they only tightened. He struggled and fought as hard as he could, but he was a slave to his tired body, and soon he couldn't move at all.

" _So let it out, and let it in, hey Jude, begin, you're waiting for someone to perform with,_ " Mary stood perfectly still as the smoke stuck to her bare feet, before it ignited into a thousand hot flames and engulfed her all together. Dean screamed in pain, "Mom no!" he wailed in pain, unable to move. 

A heart monitor went flat, a constant beep, beside him, Meg's body decayed in front of him, as if years were passing in seconds, and she went from body to dust in moments. The tears Dean cried were filled with ash and sand, painful and burning as they fell from his eyes and began to drown him. The fire spread to the rest of the room, taking Meg and the broken TV and his mother, saving him for last. "P-P-Please no," Dean sobbed, trying to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He had to see it all, like some cruel trick the world had chosen to play on him. Suddenly there was another voice.

"Dean?" To his left, Clarence was sitting up in his bed, dressed in jeans and a singed t-shirt. He looked robotic, stiff, and had just enough time to make eyes with Dean before the fire swallowed him in one bite, creeping closer to Dean with every second. The last thing he saw were grey smokey clouds where Clarence's eyes should have been before the fire ate him alive.

 

Dean bolted upright with the end of a scream, slick with cold sweat and tears both fresh and dried on his cheeks and hospital gowns. Someone rushed in but he didn't bother to look who, he was still crying and didn't want anyone to see. Curling his knees into his chest, Dean pulled at the sides of his hair and shook nervously. The room wasn't on fire. No one was singing. His mother was still gone. There were no shackles holding him down. He was okay. _It's okay. It was just a bad dream._

"Now don't you try to tell me you're alright," it was Ellen, hands on her hips for a moment in defiance before she closed the door to the room with her inside. 

Dean slammed his eyes shut. He wanted it to stop. He could still hear the dead heart monitor, he could still feel the flames that took his mother. He couldn't look at Ellen, he just wanted to be left alone. But it wasn't in Ellen's nature to give up so easy a second time, and she sat on the edge of his bed without asking and pulled his hands from his hair, ignoring that in the process he tore some out. “Look at me,” she spoke softly, but Dean didn’t listen. He was still shaking, eyes shut and locked. “Look at me, boy!” Ellen was harsher that time, pulling up his chin to force him to look at her.

Dean’s embarrassment was clear as day: like a toddler who had a bad dream and needed his Mommy to tuck him back into bed. But Dean’s mother had been gone for longer than a decade, and had missed many a night where Dean had needed her comforting touch.

 

Mary Winchester had died when Dean was four, hardly old enough to understand what ‘gone’ meant. For years, John simply told him that his mother had gone to heaven to become an angel, because she was so good and kind that the other angels needed her there to take care of them. Dean had cried, saying that he needed her more, and that the angels had to give her back. There were weeks where he hardly slept at all, spending all of his time by Sammy’s crib, holding his tiny hand through the bars and telling him that their mother would be home soon.

What he later was told by his father, once he was ‘old enough to understand’, was that Mary had been out one night, driving home after a trip to see her parents, and that a drunk driver had hit her car. The impact didn’t kill her, and she had manage to call for an ambulance with a broken leg, but in waiting, the car’s engine caught fire and she, (of course, unable to crawl from the car, where the driver’s door was caved in from the impact) was burnt alive.

After that, at 14, the nightmares started for Dean. At first, they were just of fire, a hot wall of flame that surrounded him. But time passed, and soon the fire was no longer encompassing him, but his mother, desperately stuck in a burning car, alone and scared and unable to escape. Every night, Dean would watch his mother die, his terrified and vivid imagination creating new horrible ways for her to go. It soon lead to early drinking, which was encouraged by his absent father, who said nothing but "Man up, Winchester," whenever Dean brought the nightmares up. He learned quickly to stop mentioning them, and to simply grin and bear it.

Dean never outgrew the nightmares, and since the crash, they had only worsened. His mother’s death mixed with the horrors of his own crash and the hospital’s patients. It was as if there was a dial on his night terrors, and the crash had turned them all the way up.

Dean tried his best to look at Ellen, but found himself too ashamed to make eye contact. He stared at her forehead instead, where deep lines were forming as she frowned. “I said look at me!” she ordered. Red in the face, he obliged. He couldn’t tell if he was still crying, or if it had stopped.

Ellen sighed deeply, her chest falling with her shoulders as her expression softened slightly. “You’re okay. You’re safe,” she assured him, though it was little use. Dean blinked away the last of the tears, and nodded once, saying nothing. Ellen released his face, and he lowered his gaze to his hands, which circled his legs and held them into his chest like a small child might.

“How long have you been having the nightmares? Since the crash?” she kept talking, almost as if she knew Dean didn’t want to talk about it. He shook his head. _Longer than that. Much longer than that._

“When did you start having them then?” she raised an eyebrow, and Dean noticed a small tattoo that peeked under the short sleeve of her scrubs. A small script, just a name: _Joanna Beth_. Dean wondered who Joanna was.

After a pause of Ellen waiting, her patience wearing thin, Dean caved and decided speaking would end this faster. “Doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

The nurse didn’t seem satisfied. “Course it does, now spit it out,” though her words implied a certain edge, Dean felt almost... comforted.

“Long time before the crash. They’re just,” he exhaled slowly, “worse now. Won’t stop.”

She nodded as if to understand, and stood up. “Gimme a minute, don’t move,”

Ellen shuffled out quickly, closing the door behind her as she left to give Dean some privacy. He shifted nervously, crossing his legs instead of holding them into himself, as if to try and recover some of his fallen dignity. They would never speak of this again. _No more chick flick moments or heart-to-hearts_. He was acting like a pussy; his father would be ashamed.

A couple minutes later, Ellen returned holding a small paper cup with a pill inside. She held it out to Dean like a peace offering, but he hesitated. “Its a sleeping pill,” she explained, “It’ll put you under so good you won’t dream. No nightmares,”

_No nightmares. No dreams at all. The perfect deep slumber._ Dean snatched it from her hand and swallowed the pill dry so fast his head spun. When it was down, he nodded at her shyly. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Damn straight,” Ellen smirked, her wit back and maternal energy gone, “Now get some sleep and quit screaming,”

The teasing seemed to lessen the tension in the room and put Dean at rest. Within the hour, he was asleep again, no nightmares _all night_.


End file.
